


Untitled Motel Schmoop

by uschickens



Series: Untitled Motel Fic [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, curtain!fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-10-24
Updated: 2006-10-24
Packaged: 2018-08-14 12:02:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8013034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uschickens/pseuds/uschickens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean looks up at Sam, peering through the flames of yet another dead thing salted and burned less than an hour before sunrise, and says, "Fuck it, we are not <i>moving</i> tonight."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Untitled Motel Schmoop

The last time they took a night off, Dean had dislocated his right shoulder again, killing that thing the night before - who knew something with legs that short could jump so high? - and Sam was still getting over some sort of Martian death plague. They'd spent that night in separate beds, Dean stretched out and trying not to breathe too hard, which jarred his arm, Sam curled up, almost in half - making him the size of a normal human being - and making sad little snorkling noises as he tried to breathe at all. Normally it was that level of patheticness that drove them to sit still for more than half an hour.

This time, though, when Dean looks up at Sam, peering through the flames of yet another dead thing salted and burned less than an hour before sunrise, and says, "Fuck it, we are not *moving* tonight," neither of them are broken or blatantly ill. Sam has shadows under his eyes, and Dean's frown lines stand out sharper than his smile lines, but that's just the way things go these days. That doesn't mean that a little bit of the strain on Sam's face doesn't slip away at Dean's words, nor that Dean's shoulders don't un-hunch a little.

It's five thirty before they've erased the last traces of their existence from the cemetery, and they just knock off the worst of the gravedirt and head straight to Denny's. Dean gets the Moon over My Hammy (which, and he will never, ever tell anyone this, especially Sam on pain of being burnt alive on the ceiling, he once accidentally called the Moon over My Sammy, about six months after Sam left for Stanford), and Sam orders pancakes, waffles, bacon, sausage, biscuits, toast, eggs over easy and scrambled, and home fries. To start.

Dean drinks nearly an entire carafe of coffee by himself, but it doesn't matter; Sam knows he'll be asleep as soon as he gets clean and warm again. Right now, it's a comfort thing, not a caffiene thing. Sam slouches down on his side of the booth until his knees bump up against Dean. Dean makes obscene faces with his Hammy and some of Sam's home fries, making Sam snarf orange juice. (Did Sam mention he ordered orange juice, too? Because he did. That, and hot chocolate, too. He especially likes the marshmallows when they're soggy and chocolate-laden. If they weren't in a Dennys in the middle of godforsaken nowhere, Oklahoma, Dean would probably try to steal those marshmallows with his mouth. Definitely when Sam shoves the mallows underneath his upper lip, then curls his mouth in a bizarre clown-grin, showing his marshmallow-teeth. Today, though, this just make Dean laugh around the stolen home fries and bump his knee against Sam's leg.)

Dean flirts lazily with their waitress, who shows them pictures of her newest grandbaby and gives them free muffins (which Sam totally forgot to order). Kids are just heading out to school when they settle up their bill, too-cool-for-this-shithole-town highschoolers drifting in for their morning coffee and "pastry"-esque type thing. Sam looks at them and still feels his stomach clench in sympathy with them, but he's lost the flush of remembered anger and frustration that seeing those kids he used to be, sort of, used to bring. He thinks maybe this means he's growing up a little. He jogs to catch up with Dean outside, and the two of them amble back to the motel, shoulders and elbows and hips bumping companionably from time to time.

Sam pretends to want to check his email in order to give Dean the first shower. Dean would take it anyway, but Sam likes to pretend he has a choice in the matter. Mostly he just ends up surfing the technology section of Google News and signing Dean's non-essential email address up for a bunch of porn sites. Once Dean quits bitching about the spam, he'll probably thank Sam. Dean eventually emerges from the bathroom to shave, towel wrapped around his waist and a few stray bruises blossoming here and there across his back. Nothing that either of them more than barely notice, except for the one high on Dean's shoulder, close to his neck, that is in the shape of Sam's mouth. Sam presses lightly on this one as he stands behind Dean, who snaps his teeth at Sam's reflection in the mirror. Sam rubs one knuckle against the grain of Dean's stubble just above his jawline, then disappears into his own shower. (One advantage of motels, so long as they don't stay at the *really* crappy ones, is virtually unlimited hot water.)

Dean is curled up under the covers when Sam finally drags himself out from under a shower with a) unusually fabulous water pressure and 2) a shower head that is actually high enough for Sam to stand *under* the water, rather than just beside it. Dean's cranked the air conditioner on high to drown out all the noises of the day, so Sam pulls on a pair of track pants - no underwear - and a t shirt before crawling in next to Dean. Dean is clutching a pillow like a teddy bear, which is almost unbearably cute to Sam, diminished not in the slightest because he knows that Dean is cuddling a knife underneath that pillow, too. Sam supposes that says something about him, probably not healthy, but he gave up worrying about that fifteen months and thirty-seven states ago. He loops an arm around Dean's waist, careful not to impede his knife arm, and drags his pillow close to Dean's.

He sleeps, knowing that whoever wakes up first will order the pizza and raid the vending machines out by the non-working ice machine, then wake the other one up with a hand down his pants. It's something of a ritual at this point, and if there's anything the Winchester boys know, it's rituals. It's close to Halloween, so he's pretty sure they'll be able to find a marathon of crappy horror movies on AMC or TBS or Bravo or whatever channels the motel happens to get. Dean will bitch, and Sam will laugh, and someone will inevitably end up spilling the garlic sauce, which, when you think about it, is way scarier than anything on tv. Dean will fall asleep somewhere in the middle of the Bride of Frankenstein or Halloween H2O, and Sam will stay awake just long enough to see the credits roll. Tomorrow they'll probably move on, hitting the Dennys for breakfast again and mooching off the free wireless from the Krystals next door, finding where they'll head next. Or maybe they'll just pick up coffee and hit the road, in no particular direction, and they'll find their next job when it finds them. Either way, Sam is content for the moment, in the closest thing to domesticity he's ever known.

Sam wakes up around noon, still far too early to consider moving, but he's suddenly wide awake. Dean has thrashed the sheets into tangled submission again, so Sam sits up long enough to make sure that if they have to flee the bed suddenly (a legitimate concern in their line of family), neither of them will die in a horrible sheet-related neck-breaking. Dean is face-down in his cuddled pillow, and Sam cannot resist pressing his lips to the base of Dean's neck. He mouths softly, brushing back and forth over the short hair their. Dean scrunches his face, at least those parts of it that Sam can see, but does not wake. "No footies," he says clearly, eyes still closed and nose wrinkled. Sam grins and rests his hand between Dean's shoulderblades, letting his bed-warm hand soothe Dean back to sleep. Dean mutters and sighs. "Don't want to wear the footie pajamas. 'S not cool." Sam strokes Dean's back, trying to snicker silently and without shaking the bed. "It's okay, Dean. Your pjs are awesome." He murmurs more nonsense, curling back up against Dean's back. When he lines his knees up with Dean's, he can feel Dean stretching his toes, as if to protest the nonexistent confinement of uncool sleepwear. Sam presses his forehead against Dean's shoulder and just *laughs.* He drifts back to sleep, still grinning.


End file.
